


Tomorrow Never Knows

by Hope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series, Weechesters, mini_nanowrimo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-01
Updated: 2007-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:53:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turn off your mind, relax and float down stream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow Never Knows

**Author's Note:**

> A bit from mini_nanowrimo.

*

John prefers driving at night, when the world narrows to outside, what he can see in his headlights; and inside, what glows with the reflection of the display on the dash and the radio.

Sammy likes it too. Dean lets him call shotgun when they ease back into the car after a late-night meal at a roadside diner, preferring to crawl on in and take advantage of having the back seat all to himself, dropping off in a food-induced coma not long after they _bump-bump_ back onto the highway.

The boys both like the music loud. John had to rewire the speakers when he did work on the trunk, built the weapons case in, but if he turns it up enough, the back seat still pounds and thrums with the vibration of the bass line. It works on Dean not unlike a clock does in a puppy's bed; an artificial heartbeat to lull him into a sense of utero.

Sam's eyes reflect the faint light of the stereo, generating unexpected depth. Sam's features go flat and impassive with the hypnotism of the movement and the music; John feels his face settle into similar lines, like his body is sleeping and mind still active, aware, awake. Sammy watches the yellow line beat out its rhythm as the tripped-out strains of the song weave in and out of its stuttered beat. There's nothing in the world but the elements of the song and the road, each note and flash translated through John's senses in a way they couldn't be in the daylight.

He glances to Sammy again and sees the kid still not moving, slumped in the corner of the passenger seat with his knees pulled loosely up to his chest, socked-feet on the seat and his body half-angled toward John. His head rests against the window and John bets he can feel the pulse of the music rattle his teeth like he’s resting against the skin of a drum.

Overwhelmed, John's struck by the moment, certain that Sammy will remember this, that this is a convergence that will help form the foundation of Sammy's memories, of his self. Maybe one day he'll be hurtling along a dark highway with his own music pumping, maybe even this same song, and be struck with unexpected exhilaration. Maybe he'll be outside in the middle of nowhere on a moonless night, look up at the stars and recognize the stillness of the constellations, catch his breath. In five years or fifty.

"Church," Sammy mutters, and John blinks, swallows, jaw feeling stiff after being still for so long. He glances over; Sammy's looking at him. John realizes what it is, what Sammy's saying: the piano chords hammering out the frayed end of the song, slipping into church bell tolls and out again.

"Yeah," John says, smiling a little, the sound of it rich in that single word. Sammy smiles back, turns his face back to the road.

**Author's Note:**

> http://angstslashhope.livejournal.com/1253743.html


End file.
